


love is like a sin, my love (for the ones that feel it the most)

by but_seriously



Series: for the ones that feel it the most [1]
Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-28
Updated: 2012-04-28
Packaged: 2017-11-04 11:43:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/but_seriously/pseuds/but_seriously
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Klaus aims to take, to ravage—not to please. / Or, Klaus’ kleptomania gets the better of him at the Mikaelson ball.</p>
            </blockquote>





	love is like a sin, my love (for the ones that feel it the most)

**Author's Note:**

> written for the comment ficathon at vd_kink on LiveJournal, with the prompt "Klaus&Caroline or Kol&Caroline: Want. Take. Have. - Bonus if compulsion and/or non-con." Big thanks to skerdypants for beta'ing!

 

* * *

**want** :wänt _(v.)_ : (1) to feel a need or a desire for; (2) to wish, need, crave, demand, or desire

* * *

.

.

.

This is what Klaus sees.

An ambitious woman with a smile so red, so saccharine, charming her way through the court with her Boleyn appeal; blowing kisses and stealing hearts with her easy grace and the wave of her fingertips.

( _Oh how misleading, oh how illusory._ )

She turns with light steps, curtsies like the way one would raise a cynical eyebrow, laughs with just a hint of spite. Her bracelet dangles from her wrist and glints in the lamplight as she brushes a light finger across his thigh, closing her lips around her wine like a woman asking to be ravished.

This is what Klaus sees.

Hair of spun gold and curled to high heaven, woven with flowers and powdered with white. Red on the lips and red on the cheeks of a girl _(barely a girl)_ with enough fortune to be made queen ( _barely a queen)_ yet incapable of commanding it.

She thinks life bitter ( _How bitter everything is,_ she would say _, how tart_ ) so she surrounds herself with sweet things (meringue and macaroons and berries and cakes smothered with cream), with delicate things (silk and lace and chartreuse and hemlines with ribbons), curling herself against the cool green grass and sighing her days away.

She lifts the bottle of Château Margaux and tilts her head to the side. Pushes the French doors open. Slips away into the night with him.

This is what Klaus sees.

A different blonde in a different room in a different time. She's almost a woman but not quite, with her dewy eyes and her satin gloves pulled to her elbows and her upturned lips (pretty and pink instead of full and red). She's almost eighteen, nearly complete, and that's all she'll ever be—nearly complete.

She has a look of quiet disdain in her eyes as he approaches, a quiet derision that never dares to go louder because she's heard whispers ( _she's heard screams_ ) of what he is capable of. He nods his head, offers a _Good evening_ , but she brushes past him with a scoff lingering in the back of her throat.

He keeps smiling, because she's wearing the bracelet of a beheaded, dead queen ( _because he killed her; fucked her and then killed her_ ) on her wrist and she doesn't even know it.

.

.

.

Caroline looks beautiful drenched in her thinly-veiled disinterest, with her dress that sparkles like diamonds in a blaze, with her lips pulled into a tight smile as he speaks low in her ear. A tight smile that, while none too sincere, is gracious enough.

She smiles even when she doesn't have to, and he leans in closer to her ear ( _almost like a kiss_ ).

She dances like her feet don't touch the ground, dances like she knows every man in the room is watching—and they are, and he relishes in the thought of tearing their hearts out ( _licking their blood off his fingertips_ ) afterwards. And when his hand lingers on her waist she doesn't even flinch.

He presses his hand lower than the dance requires and she cuts her eyes to his, sharp and livid. She glares and she hisses and she whispers, _Stop it_ —but she doesn't push him away.

Intriguing.

.

.

.

This is what Klaus sees.

(This is what Klaus wants.)

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* * *

**take:** tāk _(v.)_ : (1) to get into one's possession by force, skill, or artifice, especially: (2) to capture physically; seize

* * *

.

.

.

This is what Klaus takes.

He walks down the hallways to Henry the Eighth's quarters, smile in place and her garters in hand.

The queen ( _naïve, unsuspecting, reduced to a pawn in her own game_ ) notices nothing amiss as she sleeps on, and her bracelet barely registers as weight in his pocket.

This is what Klaus takes.

He's part of the mob that breaks into the Tuileries Palace—it doesn't take much to compel the commoners of Versailles—all wit and intelligence masked by a roguish plan. A chandelier crashes to the floor just behind him as he walks about the ruins, slipping past broken doors and ducking under fallen staircases. He finds what he's come here for when he enters the kitchens: it rolls to his feet as if a higher being had crafted it to.

With the world crashing down around him, he lifts the vintage Château Margaux wine to the pale sunlight, watches the liquid slosh and swirl inside the bottle. Watches it catch the light of the bonfire ( _watches it gleam like blood_ ). Gets lost in it.

This is what Klaus takes.

 _Caroline_.

.

.

.

"Oh, I get it." She leans closer, and he watches her eyes catch fire in the low lighting. "Your father didn't love you, so you assume no one else will either. So that's why you try to compel them, or—or sire them, or try to _buy_ them off—" Her hand starts to yank the bracelet off her wrist but he's too fast for her.

"You think yourself clever, don't you love?" His hand is clamped tight around her wrist, rendering it useless as her other hand presses against his chest, the beginnings of panic dawning in her eyes.

Klaus grips her wrist tighter and she takes in a sharp breath. "The little baby vampire, outsmarting the big bad hybrid. Thinking she has him all figured out."

"I don't think, I know," Caroline spits, teeth gritted in pain. "Why else would you be so ang—"

"But I'll give credit when credit is due," he continues, as if she had not spoken. "You _were_ right about one thing." He locks eyes with her, his pupils dilating and changing from azure blue to a stormy colour of the sea while she gulps, her feet struggling to take a step away from him, out of his vice grip.

"I'm on vervain," she says, her tone of voice seeping with vindication.

(Her eyes trail from his eyes down to his mouth, and her tongue slips through her lips to wet them.

He takes this as an invitation.)

"It was worth a shot," he growls, before cupping her chin roughly and getting lost in her.

.

.

.

Klaus aims to take ( _to ravage_ ), not to please.

.

.

.

* * *

**have:** hāv _(v.)_ : (1) posses, own or hold; (2) to come into possession of, to acquire

* * *

.

.

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Klaus has Caroline up against the table before she can even blink (that she even _thinks_ she can turn her back on him), pins her hips in place with his own (that she even _thinks_ she can push him off), wraps her curls in his fists (that she even _thinks_ she can pull away), kisses like an art form ( _kisses like a storm_ ).

Her breathing becomes increasingly erratic as her nails try to scratch at him through her gloves, as her teeth try to tear at his lower lip when his mouth—too hot for a vampire, too soft for a murderer—silences her cries, as her feet kick uselessly at his shins.

"You know," Klaus says as he pulls away, unnecessarily winded, but he'll never admit it ( _especially not to her_ ), "this would go about easier if you stopped struggling."

Caroline lets out a laugh that catches in her throat, her hands still fisting at his tuxedo jacket. "You're psychotic."

Klaus grins down wolfishly at her. "All a matter of perspective, really."

.

.

.

Klaus has Caroline cursing the straps of the dress she had so reluctantly admired earlier as they snap easily in his fingers. She's beginning to think he's chosen this particular dress with specific plans in mind, masking his intentions with an intricate web of pretences, offering her champagne, complimenting her dancing, telling her she looked beau—she hisses a curse as his teeth nips at the sensitive spot in the column of her neck, and she wants to _scream_ , wants to tell him he has no right, no one's ever been allowed to touch her that way, that the only person who should be touching her _that way_ is Tyler and _he_ 's conveniently gone and—

Her dress falls away.

She looks at him with wide eyes, lips that tremble with a silent plea ( _not that she'd beg, she'll never beg_ ). Her breath hitches and she lets out a gasp as his hands travel all over—the back of her neck, the lace of her bra, the small of her back ( _too slow, too delicate_ ).

"I don't—I don't want to do th—" she starts to say, but it dies away when he presses a kiss in between her breasts, his lips curling into a wicked smile.

"You don't have to do anything, love."

.

.

.

Klaus has Caroline breathing deeper and slower and further in between and in between biting her lips to keep from making any more sounds, she's now refusing to look him in the eye. Always looking up at the ceiling as he dips his head lower, always staring, transfixed at his paintings as his fingers glide down her stomach, lower and lower and lower—and then he groans.

His fingers are skimming the waistband of her panties, lacy, black, and oh so flimsy—flimsy enough for him to just tear it off with a flick of his fingers. He refrains, running his hands down her thighs instead in ways he knows will leave bruises later. He laughs darkly at that, and trails his hands back to the lace. "You're asking to be fucked, aren't you?"

"Not by you," she says breathlessly, her eyes darkening considerably, but still determinedly averted. He presses his thigh closer in between her legs and she almost lets out a moan ( _almost_ ), and her hands stop fighting against his chest for a beat.

Long enough for him to grab her wrist and force her eyes onto his. "Then by all means." He takes step back, to trail his eyes from her heels, up her thighs, across her stomach, to her face—lingering on her lips—and then finally to her eyes. She's perched on the edge of her table in nothing but her heels and her underwear, her hair a tousled mess falling about her shoulders and her lipstick smudged around the corners of her down-turned smile. And he takes it all in with a glint ( _a spark a gleam a flicker of spite_ ) in his eyes.

She looks at him. He raises an eyebrow. "Leave."

Caroline blinks, and for a moment she does nothing, just stares at him seemingly taken aback—but she gathers her wits (and her dress) up in her arms and slides off the table as he stands there, with barely a hair out of place, while she walks away with as much grace as the moment allows.

He looks down at his drawings. They're crumpled.

.

.

.

Klaus reaches a hand out to straighten them but he feels himself being thrown across the room and slammed into a wall before he can even touch his drawings. He sees a mess of golden curls, a sea of blue, smells her perfume (tastes it on his tongue), and then she's hissing in his ear, "What, were you just going to fuck me, bleed me dry, then just kick me to the curb like some whore?"

He could push her off. It'd be easy, like swatting a fly. Punching a hole through a brick wall. Breaking a spine. But the fury in the baby vampire's eyes is evident, and he likes her like this—in nothing but her undergarments, eyes feral and wild, pushing him up against the wall like he's at her mercy ( _like she wants him to be_ ).

His attention is caught by her fingers moving languidly down his buttons, popping them one by one. There's no sound in the room bar the click of his buttons hitting the floor and the sudden absence of breathing.

"If you wanted to fuck me," she says, her mouth just a whisper away from his, "might as well do it right."

Her eyes are like dark clouds rolling in the distance, and he has to chuckle as he grasps the curls falling down her back. "Miss Forbes," he says, his voice lilting in amusement, "are you trying to compel me?"

"It was worth a shot," she smirks, and as her lips clash against his she mumbles, "No more talking."

.

.

.

Klaus has Caroline biting at his neck and clutching at his hair, his shirt shed and his breath taken away. Her kisses leave him parched and dry, and when he tilts his head for another she skirts away with a knowing quirk to her brows. She's a tease (and a good one at that), and when his hand reaches for her waist she vetoes yet again.

"Enough of this," he growls, and an easel crashes against the wall as he flashes to where she is, slamming her into the table and taking her bra with him. He traces his nose down the column of her neck, breathes in the scent of her blood pulsing through her veins, and she groans because he's too slow, much too slow. Her legs wrap around his ribs the way a python would its prey—overbearing, suffocating, but intermediately just right—when his tongue down her stomach proves to be too much.

"Klaus," she laments, and she writhes against him, taking his reservations—not that he'd had any—away. His teeth break the apple-white skin of her hip and he looks up at her with the bright eyes of a child on Christmas morning.

"Aren't we eager?" He rests his forehead against her navel, kissing his way downwards, and her toes curl. She makes some kind of noise, like a shuddering against him when his mouth lingers _just there_ and practically mewls when he pulls away to meet her eyes.

"Klaus," she says again, but this time there's a sense of urgency to her voice.

"Yes, love?" His fingers stray down to the insides of her thigh while his mouth works at her neck again, and she tilts her head back, for his benefit (and also hers, mostly hers). She takes in a breath and looks away, as if knowing what's about to come.

"I—" her voice breaks ( _she can't_ ).

"Say it." Klaus' voice is deathly quiet in the still of the room, and Caroline shouldn't be shivering—there's a _goddamn_ _fire_ burning away in the fireplace for God's sake—but she does, and she brings her fingernails down his chest, feeling something rise in her chest at the rakes of red that follow.

She does the same to his back too, her lips twisting with mirth as he narrows his eyes at her and hisses as she draws blood. "I want you," she says carefully, her eyes finally looking into his, "right now. I want you inside me right now."

She leans down to lick the blood off his chest for good measure, and Klaus blinks stars away. "Is that it?" he asks, and he sounds hoarse and unfocused.

"Please," she says primly, and leans back onto the table, her lithe leg running down his side ever so slightly, "do what you want with me."

Well then.

.

.

.

Klaus has Caroline purring in his ear, sighing against the crook of his neck, biting down on his shoulder. He has her whispering curse words like a hymn, sliding her hands down the sensitized skin on his back, moaning out _I hate you I hate you I hate you_ but absolutely grabbing at his hair _yes right there yes yes yes_.

Caroline blinks as his lips slow against hers—only minutes before their teeth had clashed painfully together in their furious kiss, and now he kisses like a stolen goodbye: softly and sweetly, laden with a promise of more to come. She pulls away, eyes dazed, and he realizes she's perplexed—he likes it.

"You're stunning," he finds himself saying, but she pushes a finger to his lips, an almost fearful look in her eyes amidst the anger and confusion.

"What did I say about talking?" she rasps, and grinds her hips down to remind him why they're in that position in the first place.

He pushes deeper into her as a response and her forehead falls to his shoulder again, and it's languorous and sensual and altogether too intimate, and he can tell that's not what she wants—that's not what she wants at all.

"What's the matter, Caroline?" his voice a low rumble in his ear. "Thinking of Tyler, are you now?"

Her eyes snap to his, and she wraps her legs around him tighter, crushing his ribcage inwards—if he were still human he'd be a crumpled mess on the ground right now. " _Do not_ ," she hisses, her eyes cutting through him like a white oak dagger. "You have _no_ ide—"

He thrusts into her again, harsher this time, and she's cut off in a gasp. "It was a question and I expect an answer."

She swallows, and her kiss burns him alive. "Yes," she breathes. "Every single fucking second of this, I think of Tyler."

"Oh, Caroline," he chuckles, ghosting kisses down her breasts as she rocks against him, setting his skin alight at the slightest touch. "Dear, sweet Caroline." He grabs her jaw and makes her look at him, and when his hand leaves her face there are angry red marks amidst the bruises his lips have left. "You're a terrible liar."

She wants to respond in kind but can't, since the things he's doing with his hips leaves her arching into him and her lips parting with a ( _helpless, exposed, unguarded_ ), " _God_."

"No, Caroline," he says, breath hot against her jaw. "Just you and me here."

.

.

.

Sunshine flickers across her eyelashes and she opens her eyes to the sound of charcoal scratching against paper. Klaus doesn't seem to notice she's awake, intent as he is on his sketchbook. The pale morning sunshine casts halos around his head and she realizes she's sprawled across the most luxuriously soft, sinfully silky sheets she's ever felt. It's almost soothing, she thinks, against the soreness she feels in between her legs and the throbbing in the column of her neck.

"You draw," she asks, except it comes out more like a statement in the husky sound of her early morning voice.

"When the moment strikes," he says placidly. His eyes run from her bare legs to her barely-covered torso, and finally to her eyes. "Had a good sleep, Caroline?"

There's something about the way he says her name that makes her want to just _slam_ his face against a wall—but after last night she'd probably slam his whole being against it, kissing down his chest and making his eyes flutter shut the way they had when she'd called his name as she neared her end—but she shakes these thoughts away when she remembers who he is, what he's done.

Suddenly the bed isn't as enjoyable as it was before.

"I—" she pauses, shifts so her position isn't so vulnerable anymore. She almost pulls her legs to her chest but stops herself just in time. "I didn't sleep that much."

( _Lie_ , she can hear him snarl in her head.

He'd carried her through the halls and practically threw her down onto the bed and when he was done— _oh_ when he was done—she had barely managed to keep her eyes open, barely managed to push his arms away as they wrapped around her waist, barely managed to hide the twitch to her mouth as he brushes his lips against her forehead in a silent _good night, love_.)

Klaus casts his sketchbook aside and leans forward in his wingchair, the tips of his fingers resting together lightly. "Well, we'll just have to remedy that, won't we?"

And suddenly he's pressed against her and she sinks back against his many pillows—and she has to roll her eyes at that, because Bonnie once said pillow-hoarding was the beginnings of a serial killer—and she looks up at him, eyes wide and arms trapped in his.

"Klaus—" she struggles to sit up and he actually lets her, but his lips are already travelling down south. "Klaus," she hisses again, trying to jerk away but _oh_ his are grazing her hipbone and _oh_ it's all she can do to keep her toes from curling against the sheets. "It's too early—I just woke up and I really don't th—"

"Come now, love," he grins salaciously up at her, and his lips hover just between her legs. "No rest for the wicked."

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**fin**

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End file.
